


The Sound of Water

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Pining, Shaving, Spying, trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15401520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Two lonely men."The door opens. Through his still-closed lids he feels the stripe of bright light that falls into the room. He tries not to flinch, to reveal that he is conscious. Soft footsteps. The creak of bending knees. His breath shakes as a hand rests lightly on his forehead, pushes his hair off his sweaty face. Yes. It’s hot. He's thirsty, so thirsty. He cannot ask for water."





	The Sound of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Four-trope story number two: Spies, shaving, pining, confessions.
> 
> As always, mycitruspocket was a wonderful help. Thank you forever!

The sound of water being poured. The clink of metal on metal. An almost imperceptible sound, a scraping? The water swishing. The scraping again. Arthur opens one eye, a slit. The light is too bright for his throbbing head. 

He is standing with his back to Arthur, shirtless, the muscles in his shoulder flexing. His head tilted slightly back. Oh. He’s shaving.

Arthur closes his eye again, swallows the nausea of pain, lies still. He’s on his back, low down. On the floor, but covered. Is he cold? Hot? He can’t really tell. He listens to the scraping, swishing, clinking …

***

The door opens. Through his still-closed lids he feels the stripe of bright light that falls into the room. He tries not to flinch, to reveal that he is conscious. Soft footsteps. The creak of bending knees. His breath shakes as a hand rests lightly on his forehead, pushes his hair off his sweaty face. Yes. It’s hot. He's thirsty, so thirsty. He cannot ask for water. 

His captor, his nurse, his guard stands up, steps away. The sound of water. Something is set down next to Arthur. The footsteps recede, the door opens, shuts. A key turns. 

Arthur opens his eyes. The light is dimmer. His head still throbs. A cup stands next to the thin mattress he's lying on. He rolls to reach it. A bolt of pain. He looks down. His right arm is bound across his chest. How had he not realised before? He stretches left-handed, awkward. The water is metallic from the bashed tin cup. He drinks it all, holds the cool cup to his temple. A small relief. 

He looks around the room. A table with a basin and a jug. A narrow bed pushed into a corner. In the opposite corner, his pallet. One small window, barred. 

Two beds. The man shaving. The man leaving. His captor or his cellmate? His head throbs. He closes his eyes. 

***

The key rattles, the door opens. No stripe of light. A breath of cooler air. Night. 

The sound of water. The man approaches. A wet cloth on his face. The gentle touch of cool fingers along his jaw. He opens his eyes. The room is dark. The man is crouching at his side. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. The man stands, crosses the room, returns with the cup. His eyes serious, his mouth set. He stands looking down at Arthur. What is he saying? That Arthur is safe? But he is not safe, he is a captive. That Arthur must beg? He will not. The man holds the cup out, instead of setting it down. A test. 

Arthur tries to sit up. His shoulder screams. He rolls the other way, towards the wall, pushes himself up with his left hand, twists back to face the man. His face is pinched in a grimace — of sympathy? Arthur’s jaw is tight. He will not reveal his pain. He cannot hide it. The man steps forward, holds the cup nearer. Arthur reaches for it. His hand shakes and cool drops splash on his chest, soak into the bandage. He drinks greedily, hands it back. The man nods, steps back and sits on the bed.

They stare at each other across the dim room. Arthur’s back is screaming with the effort of sitting — how long has he lain here? He will not be the first to yield. Finally, the man nods again, swings his feet up on the bed and lies down. Arthur remains upright. He doesn’t ask himself why this is so important, but it is. The bed-springs creak, the man turns on his side, his back to Arthur. Arthur lies down. 

He fights to remain awake, to think. He doesn’t know how long he has been a prisoner here. It can’t have been many days. Perhaps only hours? He hasn’t needed to piss yet. The thought threatens to awake the need. He fights it down. 

His head still throbs, his shoulder aches with a deep, deep pain. But the binding seems competent. Better than he could have managed alone. 

He cannot recall getting injured. Can recall little of the recent past. Knows only that he has been alone. And is no longer. But why are he and his guard in the same room? The bed creaks as the man turns in his sleep. Arthur cuts his eyes sideways. The man sleeps on. Arthur’s bladder and his head are at war, one keeping him awake, the other dragging him under again. His head wins.

***

His bladder wakes him. The room is still dark. He turns his head, the window is a paler square. Dawn is near. He sits up, using his left hand again. His shoulder burns, his back screams. He struggles to get to his feet. It’s ungainly but he manages. His head swims, he has to close his eyes to recover. But now what? The bed creaks. The man gets up, crosses the room to Arthur. Will he speak at last? 

The man frowns, starts to speak, stops, clears his throat. “Need to piss?” 

Arthur nods. The man turns to the door, pulling a key on a string from beneath his shirt, placing his bulk between Arthur and the opening. Arthur waits. He is not going to try to run, he’s wearing nothing but his underwear, doesn’t know where he is, can hardly stand upright. The man reaches for his wrist, pushes him (quite gently) out of the door ahead of him. 

Cool air washes over him. They are on a narrow, low veranda lined with doors. The man’s hand at his back pushes him again. Arthur stumbles slightly. They walk down the line. The veranda ends, the man nudges him to step off. The ground is dusty, strewn with small stones that dig into his bare feet. Ahead, a tangle of scrubby bushes. “Here.”

Arthur fumbles awkwardly. Relief. Next to him, the man is also pissing. Oddly companionable. 

Ahead is nothing, just bush, stretching away gray-green. The building is dilapidated. Arthur tips his head back, the sky has that blank predawn pallor. He pushes his hand through his hair, matted with sweat, flattened from sleep. 

The man reaches for his wrist, prompts him to turn, step onto the veranda, walk back to the room. Apart from the night-sounds of insects, the place is profoundly silent. 

Arthur stands in the middle of the room. He doesn’t want to lie down again. He steps over to the table that holds the wash basin. His captor pours water from the jug, nods.

The water on his face is a balm, he uses his hand to wipe it, rubs it down his neck, beard rasping. It runs into the bandage around his shoulder and chest. The battered tin cup is on the table, he reaches for the jug. The man watches, his eyes intent, unreadable. Arthur pours water, drinks, as much to assuage the hunger that has asserted itself now other needs no longer clamor. He keeps his eyes on the man’s face. He has reason to remain silent, but he wonders at his captor’s resolve. 

Having drunk, he remains by the table, his left hand braced on its edge. He no longer feels as if he will fall, but it is tiring to stand after long hours. The water has only blunted his hunger. The man has stepped back, into the middle of the room, and they look at each other. They are similar in height, but his captor is broader than Arthur. His hair is a light brown, cut raggedly short. Hard to tell his eye colour. It is not a brutal face, but it is impassive. Finally, he speaks again. “Hungry?” His voice is rusty from disuse.

Arthur badly wants to eat. He nods.

“No voice?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. It is a very long time since he last spoke. He will wait until the man’s intentions are clearer. 

The man shrugs and turns for the door. He did not lock it when they came in, but he does when he leaves. Is he Arthur’s captor or his protector? He has heard no sounds of other humans, only insects in the night. Is this man also alone here?

He is weary of standing, but not ready to sit on the floor again. He sits on the bed.

The key rattles. Arthur stands up and opens the door. The man is bent over, retrieving the plates he evidently put down so he could manage the key. He hands one to Arthur. Some sort of root vegetable and some cooked greens. Arthur’s stomach growls. He nods his thanks and backs away towards his pallet.

The tuber is cold and the greens bitter, but it is a long time since Arthur ate anything fresh and he wolfs it down, scooping up the soggy leaves with chunks of the tuber, awkward with only his left hand. He sets the plate aside when he’s finished, all too soon. The man is eating slowly, head down, pausing between bites, making the food last. Arthur knows why, but he couldn’t, not today. Finally, the man finishes and looks up. Arthur nods his thanks. The man gets up and reaches for his plate, Arthur hands it up and stays seated on the floor as he leaves, locking the door as before. 

When he thinks of it, his shoulder still aches, so he tries not to. He needs to set his thoughts in order. He is injured; a captive. He has no clothes, none of his equipment. He and this man are possibly alone here, where, he isn’t sure. He gets to his feet and goes over to the high window. The view is of bush stretching away. The building they are in seems to be on higher ground.

And now he begins to recall. He had set off from his camp to scale the rocky bluff that looms over the valley. To see what was up there. Are they up there now?

He must have fallen, injured himself. The man must have found him. A protector, a nurse, rather than a captor?

The key rattles in the door and the man enters, carrying the water jug. Arthur turns from the window. The man doesn’t acknowledge him; pours water into the basin, lathers a small bar of soap and begins to shave again. He doesn’t remove his shirt this time. Arthur turns back to the window. It is a long time since he shaved. He listens to the swishing of water, the clink of metal on metal, the scraping of the straight razor, the whine of insects in the bush. He scratches at his hated beard. 

When the man is finished, Arthur turns back. He is cleaning the razor. Arthur will have to wait, he cannot shave left-handed. He looks down at the bandage. There is no blood on it. The man sees him look.

“Broken,” he says. 

Arthur can’t stay silent any longer.

“When I fell?” he says, his voice a rasp, strange to his ears. 

The man’s eyes widen and he nods. “I saw,” he says.

“How?”

“I watched.”

“When?”

“Always.”

Arthur’s stomach lurches and he turns away, back to the window. All this time, he thought he was alone, but he was not. He was watched. He feels sick. Angry. He turns back.

“Why?”

The man shrugs. “Why not?”

“Why not?” But Arthur doesn’t say that aloud. He wants to get away from this … spy. The door isn’t locked, but he is still barefoot and clad only in his underwear. 

“Clothes,” he says, speaking to the wall. 

“Yes,” says the man, and the door opens and shuts. The key turns. 

He is the captive of a man who has been spying on him from a distance. 

The key rattles, the door opens. Arthur remains staring out of the window, at the now hot, endless bush. The man crosses the room and drops a bundle on Arthur’s pallet. “There,” he says. “Clothes.”

Arthur doesn’t turn, but he looks down, sideways. His shirt, his pants. No shoes. The man hasn’t left the room, he’s sitting on the bed. Arthur bends to retrieve the clothes, keeps his back turned. They are cleaner than they were, but there is a rip in the right shirt sleeve and new red-dirt stains on the knees of the pants. He drops the shirt and tries to put on the pants, one-handed. He huffs in frustration and hears the man cross the room again. Arthur feels his face flame, but he turns to him. The man reaches out, tentative, to where Arthur has both edges of the fly held together in his left hand. He can’t fasten it. The man frowns, questioning. Arthur scowls, but he has to nod. He closes his eyes, too humiliated to look at him. The man fastens his fly. Arthur nods, and sits down hard on the pallet to attempt the shirt. He unfastens the buttons, then sticks his left arm in the sleeve, reaches round to pull the right side across his chest and right arm, fumbles a button closed. He wasn’t at least watched while he did it; the man is looking out of the window. 

Arthur is exhausted. He lies down, rolls towards the wall, closes his eyes. There’s no sound except the endless screeching of hot insects. 

***

The room is empty when he wakes again. He gets up, tries the door. Locked. Crosses to the window, nothing to see, the sun is high. He drinks water. Has he been abandoned here? He bangs on the door, once, firmly. His shoulder hurts. No sound outside. 

He looks around the room, nothing to see. The man must have another place to keep things. He sits on the bed. Waits. The key in the lock, the door opens, the man walks in with two plates. Cooked meat.

“Outside,” Arthur says, moving towards the door. The man steps back, lets him pass. The veranda overlooks a dusty square, and beyond a broken-down fence, more bush. Arthur sits down on the edge. The man sits too, hands him a plate. The leg of a rabbit. He is so tired of rabbit. Juices smear his chin as he eats. He licks his fingers clean, wipes at his beard.

The man looks at him sidelong. Does he smile? 

Again, he eats more slowly, but when he finishes, he sets down his plate, turns to face Arthur, and says: “Eames.”

“Eems?”

He nods, and points at himself, “Eames.”

Oh. “Arthur.”

The man nods again, as if satisfied.

Eames, his spying captor is Eames.

It’s good to be outside. Arthur is not used to being indoors. He stretches his legs out to feel the sun on them, scratches at his beard. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eames’ hand flutter towards his own face in a mirror of Arthur’s scratching. He hears Eames clear his throat, softly. Turns to look.

“Do you want …?” He mimes shaving.

“Can’t.” Arthur tips his head towards his bound right arm.

They sit in silence. Far out above the valley, his valley, a vulture turns lazily. Arthur wonders what has died — been killed. 

He tilts his chin. “Kill,” he says.

“Small,” says Eames. “Only one vulture.”

The silence feels more comfortable now.

“Just you?” asks Arthur. “Here?”

“Just me. Now.”

They’re both out of the habit of talking. 

“How long?”

Eames shrugs. “Long.”

Silence falls again, until Eames stands up. “Come,” he says.

“Where?”

“Come see.”

So Arthur stands and follows Eames down the veranda. Eames unlocks a door at the end. A rudimentary kitchen. Well, a room with a table on which there is a small heap of tubers. And a knife. A battered pot. 

“Water?” says Arthur. There’s a bucket under the table, Eames picks it up and leads the way to the end of the veranda, near where they pissed. He steps off, but Arthur stops. No shoes.

“Shoes.”

Eames turns back to him, gives him a considering look.

“I won’t run,” says Arthur. He may not like being a prisoner, but he is safer here, now.

Eames nods. “Come.” And leads Arthur to another room, also locked. Inside is a chair, with a shirt draped over it. Beneath it are his shoes. He pushes his feet into them, but he cannot tie the laces. 

He follows Eames back out with the shoes loose on his feet. Eames stops, crouches, and ties them.

“Thank you.” Speaking is beginning to feel less strange, but he has not thanked a human for … a long time. 

Eames looks up, smiles, fleeting, and nods. “Come. Water.”

He leads the way down a narrow path hidden in the bush, down and along a slope. After a while, the quiet is broken by the faint sound of water trickling, which grows louder as they walk. They round a large boulder. There is a small pool among rocks, fed by a thin stream from above. The place is damp and cool. Eames places the bucket under the fountain. The path continues past the place. Arthur tilts his head towards it.

“It goes down,” says Eames, and steps back onto the path. “Come.” 

The path descends in a slow arc and ends at a huge rock. Eames stops, gestures Arthur forward. He steps round the rock, and sees above him a cliff — the one he had set out to climb? He looks back at Eames; is he laughing? He is certainly smiling.

“I fell,” says Arthur. “I thought …” He mimes climbing. 

Now Eames does laugh. “I walk,” he says. 

Why had Arthur not found the path? From this angle it cannot be seen. 

“I don’t remember,” he says. “Walking up.”

“I carried you. You were …” he lets his head loll … “heavy.”

“You carried me up that path?”

“Took a long time,” says Eames. 

The walk back up seems steeper, but Eames, with the full bucket, is sure-footed. Arthur lags behind. It’s difficult to climb, unbalanced as he feels.

“When?” he asks, after he catches his breath at the top.

“Three days.”

“Three days ago?”

He must have been groggy for hours. 

“I didn’t know if …”

“I’d wake up?”

“Yes.” Eames frowns. “You hit your head.” He gestures at the area above his right ear. Arthur reaches over and touches his own head, feels a large bump. No wonder his head hurts. 

Thinking about it makes him aware it’s hurting badly now. The steep climb in the heat hasn’t helped.

“Tired,” he says. “Sore.”

Eames nods. He unlocks the door. Arthur heads for his pallet, but Eames shakes his head, gestures towards the bed. Arthur sits, kicks his shoes off and lies down.

“Don’t fall,” says Eames, his mouth twitching into a smile. Arthur can’t help smiling too. Eames heads for the door.

“Why do you lock me in?” says Arthur.

“Keep you safe.”

“From who?” But Arthur’s eyes are heavy and he doesn’t hear if Eames replies.

***

The sound of water. Eames is pouring it into the basin. He holds up soap, a cloth. “Wash?”

Now that he knows water is to be had nearby, Arthur does want to use more of it to clean himself. “Yes.” He gets up and crosses to the table. “Thank you.”

Eames leaves the room, but this time he doesn’t lock the door. Arthur washes awkwardly, the bits he can reach. Dunks his head in the bowl to clean his matted hair. The water is cloudy with red dust, old blood. He dries his hair on his shirt and steps out into the declining sun. Late afternoon. 

From Eames’ kitchen, the sound of a knife. He walks down the veranda, stands in the doorway. Eames is chopping the tubers. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, nods. “Better.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He goes to sit on the edge of the veranda, nearby, so he can listen to Eames. He tips his head back to the light.

Eames comes out, holding the pot. “Time to cook.”

“Where? I never saw smoke.”

He has sat and looked towards Eames’ hideaway without ever knowing it was there.

“Hidden.” He leads the way, behind the building, to a place between two large rocks, overhung by a tree. Arthur can see at once how the tree will spread the smoke, so it does not rise as a column, to draw attention. Eames kindles a small fire, places the pot on it and backs out of the space. The smoke swirls around them.

“Clever.”

He smiles, raises an eyebrow. “I saw your smoke,” he says.

Arthur had not been so cunning. But he had also needed a fire, to keep predators at bay. 

“How did you see me?”

Eames holds his hands up to his eyes, curved to mimic binoculars. 

“Why?”

“I was lonely.”

It’s a confession of stark pain.

“So was I.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. You didn’t know.”

Eames ducks his head and goes over to the fire again. “Almost ready,” he says.

They have approached intimacy and backed away.

The food is bland and meagre. But it is hot, and eating together elevates it beyond mere fuel. He eats slowly this time. 

When he puts his plate down, Eames says: “I should have come to find you.”

“You did.”

“Before. I was waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“You were coming. I was waiting.”

“You were waiting for me to climb?”

“Yes.”

“Why not show me the path?”

Eames shrugs. “Cautious.”

Arthur understands that.

He scratches at his beard, squinting into the setting sun. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames lift his hand to his own face.

“I could …” he says, mimes shaving.

Much as he wants the beard gone, Arthur is not ready to put himself in the hands of this virtual stranger. “Not today.”

Eames nods.

They sit together as dusk settles and the first stars hang huge in the sky. The night-sounds of insects fill their silence. At last they go into the room. As Eames locks the door, Arthur asks again: “Safe from what?”

“Whatever is there. Whoever is there.”

“You’re the first person I have seen here.”

“There have been others. Not for a long time.”

Arthur supposes this building would have drawn whoever was out there. His camp among the rocks did not. 

***

The sound of water. The familiar sound of water. Odd how quickly one can become accustomed to a new sound. Arthur opens his eyes. Eames is at the table, washing. He has his shirt off. Arthur watches the play of muscle in his broad back. He tips his head back, runs the cloth down his throat. Arthur can’t see that, but he can imagine it. He watches as Eames lifts each arm, washes, rubs the cloth over the back of his neck, down his chest. Watches as Eames takes off his pants, picks up the cloth again and continues his bath. He keeps his back turned. Does he know Arthur is watching? Arthur remains still. Eames drops the cloth into the basin, reaches for a dry one. Turns from the basin as he dries himself. Arthur does not close his eyes. Eames smiles, a fleeting curl of his mouth. Neither of them says a word.

Eames turns away, dresses, and leaves the room, taking the basin of dirty water with him. He leaves the door open. Arthur gets up, stiff from lying carefully so as not to jostle his shoulder. Under the bandage, he itches. He is at the door as Eames returns with the basin.

“I shouldn’t have watched you,” says Arthur. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Eames turns to leave before Arthur can say more. He washes his face and goes out into the cool morning. Did Eames want him to watch?

“Come.” Eames is holding a long pointed stick and the bucket. “We need food.”

“Where are my things?” Eames leads him to the storeroom, unlocks it. In a corner is Arthur’s equipment: his bow and arrows, his snares. The bow is useless, but not the snares. He picks them up and follows Eames, down the path. Near the pool there is a stand of fresh leaves, Eames picks them and drops them into the bucket. Further on, he digs with the pointed stick, comes back with a handful of the tubers.

Forage is good here, in the damper area near the water. Arthur looks for places to set the snares. He can’t do it, one-handed, but Eames nods when he points them out, sets the snares. They pause to drink at the pool. The sun is climbing the sky. They retrace their steps up the path. He is getting stronger again, but the exertion tires him. As they arrive back at the building, Eames says: “Rest. I will bring food.” Arthur doesn’t argue. He lies on the bed. Eames locks the door. It’s a comfort now that Arthur understands.

He wakes when he hears the key rattle. 

The tubers are so hot he burns his mouth a little. Eames smiles, that tiny curl, gone almost as soon as it appears. Arthur laughs, eats more slowly, blowing on the food to cool it.

“How did you know?” he asks.

“Know what?”

“Which to eat?”

Eames shrugs. “Ate a little, if I didn’t get a stomach ache, ate more. How did you?”

“Same. I don’t have a pot, though. The leaves aren’t so good, raw.”

It is unspoken between them that he will not be going back to his lonely camp. There are things he wants, but they can fetch them later. When he is strong enough for the hike. 

“Show me my camp,” he says when they have finished eating. Eames takes the plates and comes back with a battered pair of binoculars. He crouches behind Arthur and directs his gaze. His camp springs into focus; it looks so small and abandoned. So lonely. He thinks about Eames spying on him there. He isn’t angry about it anymore. 

He lowers the binoculars. He can feel Eames’ warmth behind him. “Lonely,” he says.

“Yes.” Eames leans forward, his knee presses into Arthur’s back for a moment. He wonders if it was deliberate. 

He hands the binoculars back to Eames. “Not much of a camp,” he says, standing up. “We should check the snares.”

Talking is coming easier, but they walk in silence, and that doesn’t feel awkward either. 

There is a small rabbit in one of the snares. Nothing in the other.

“More rabbit,” says Arthur, scowling.

Eames laughs. “What can you get with your bow?” 

“Small buck. Sometimes. Too much for one person.”

Arthur watches Eames prepare the rabbit, deftly skinning and gutting it, jointing it. It’s not really big enough for two, but he thinks having too little with Eames will be better than having too much alone. Eating as much as he could at once because he had to leave the rest far away from his camp. Eames picked more greens on the way back up the hill, and there are still tubers in his kitchen. He chops them up and puts them in the pot with the meat, adds water to make a stew. It will take hours to cook, but the fire must be watched. They stay clear of the smoke, sit with their backs against the wall.

Eames brings out his knife and his razor and hones them on a stone. Arthur wishes he had something to do. “Do you miss having things to do?” he says.

Eames stops what he is doing and turns to look at Arthur. “Not just surviving? Yes, I do.”

“Just surviving.” He draws in the dust at his feet. “Exhausting.”

Eames goes back to honing the razor. Arthur watches his hands. The pinky on one is crooked. Will his shoulder heal well enough to be useful? 

“How did you know, when I …?” He tips his head towards his bound shoulder.

“When you fell?”

“Yes. Were you watching?”

“I saw you coming, across the valley. I was waiting. Not watching. I heard you.”

“Heard me? Scream?”

Eames is looking at his hands, but he’s stopped his task. “Yes.” He still doesn’t look at Arthur. “I heard you, so I ran to find you. After you screamed, you didn’t make more noise. I thought … maybe …”

“I’d be dead?”

“Yes. But you were breathing. There was a lot of blood.” His hand flutters towards the bump on Arthur’s head, but he doesn’t touch. “A lot of blood. And your arm was …” He twists his own arm behind himself. 

“And you carried me? All the way?”

“You shouted at me.” He turns his head up to look at Arthur, and again there’s a tiny curl of a smile. “You swore!”

Arthur has to smile at that. 

“I straightened your arm.”

“And I swore more?”

“You fainted.” Eames is looking back down at the two blades, turning them to catch the light. “I was scared.”

Arthur reaches out, touches Eames’ hand. “Sorry. Thank you.”

And again Eames looks up at him with that fleeting smile. “Thank you for not …”

“Dying?”

Eames nods. They sit in silence then. Arthur knows he probably almost did die.

“Better go and see about the food,” says Eames, standing up, shaking off the somber moment.

It’s still daylight, but the food is ready, so they eat. Days have no structure.

The stew is a change from rabbit roasted over the fire, and surprisingly good.

“I miss salt,” says Eames. 

It’s no use thinking about things you miss.

***

That night, Eames offers him the bed. It’s more comfortable than the thin mattress on the floor, but Arthur can’t sleep. He lies on his side and looks at Eames across the room; his face soft with sleep, one hand under his cheek. Outside a night bird screams, and Eames stirs, opens his eyes. They look at each other but neither speaks.

When he wakes, Arthur is alone in the room, but the door is open and a block of sunlight paints the floor. The water jug is on the table; he gets up and pours some into the bowl, splashes his face. The water runs down his neck and into the bandage, it’s getting dirty with dust and sweat.

He steps outside. Eames is sitting on the edge of the veranda. He looks up and smiles. Arthur sits down, looking out over the valley, scratching at his beard.

“We should go and get food,” says Arthur.

“Yes.” But Eames doesn’t get up, so they sit and gaze out over the gray-green bush. Arthur yawns. Time passes so slowly, but it’s better now he’s not alone.

Finally, Eames stands up. “Come.” But he doesn’t go to the storeroom for his tools. He leads the way round the building, towards the fire place. The pot is there, cleaned and full of water. 

“Will you let me now?” He takes the folded razor out of his pocket, looking straight at Arthur. “Let me?” He stretches out his hand, touches Arthur’s jaw with just one finger, draws it down.

Arthur trembles. “Yes.”

Eames nods and turns away to kindle a fire. He sets the pot on it. They sit against the wall waiting for the water to heat. Eames turns the razor over and over restlessly. 

When the water is hot, Eames carries the pot back around the building and fetches his soap. Arthur wonders where it came from, but he doesn’t ask. He sits down on the edge of the veranda again. Eames hands him the soap and he dips it into the hot water, lathers it carefully between his hands and rubs it into his beard. 

Eames crouches down in front of him, frowning. “No,” he says, “sit on the ground.”

Arthur shifts and Eames sits behind him, his knees spread. He tugs on Arthur’s good shoulder so that he leans back. He touches Arthur’s jaw with his left hand, tilting his head back, and brings the razor up. Arthur knows he is safe, but his stomach lurches as the sharp blade meets his skin. Eames stills his hand. “Go on,” says Arthur, closing his eyes. Eames draws the blade smoothly along his jaw and Arthur relaxes, listening to the scraping, the clink of the razor against the bowl as Eames rinses it, the sound of water.

And then Eames begins to speak, very quietly. “I was so lonely here,” he says. “I looked out over the valley, looking for … anything living. And then I saw you. I wanted to go and find you, but I waited. I watched you. So clever, in your cave, coming and going, hunting, sitting and looking over the valley, towards the hill. I thought about going across the valley, but then I thought I should wait. I had found you, but you didn’t know I was looking … spying.”

Arthur wants to reply, but the razor is on his throat.

“I watched you every day. I wanted you to … I hoped you would come. I thought it wasn’t fair, that I knew you were there, and you were still all alone. You looked so sad.” He lifts the blade away, and Arthur turns his head to look at him. 

“And then one day you took your bow and arrows and started walking across the valley! I waited for you. But you didn’t come to the hill, you turned away. I waited and watched you, until you did come. And then I thought—” He shakes his head. 

“I always wondered if there was anything up here,” says Arthur. “But I was afraid of what it might be. Who it might be.”

“You couldn’t see.”

“No.”

“But you came to find out.”

“Yes. I’m glad.”

Eames nods, his eyes serious. “So am I.”

He reaches for Arthur’s hand, raises it to his face, so Arthur can feel. “There,” he says. “Better.”

“Much better.” He smiles at Eames, and Eames lets his own smile linger this time.

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really a "spies" AU. I always seem to twist them round a bit!


End file.
